AFTER EFFECTS
One of the conspicuous characteristics of Mrs. Richard Burton was that
she was at her best in emergencies. But, as she was a celebrated
actress, it was of course easy to understand her appreciation of
dramatic moments.
Before Mr. Simpson reached the top of the mesa she had awakened.
Something—a sound or an increasing heaviness in the atmosphere—had
brought her slowly back to consciousness. Half a moment she lay
wondering why she felt such a sense of impending calamity when, so far
as she knew, everything about her was peaceful. Marie was breathing
contentedly in her cot on the opposite side of the tent.
Getting up, Polly put on a heavy rose-colored silk dressing gown—the
admiration of the Camp Fire girls—and walked to the opening of a tent.
The air was thick; the sense of calamity more convincing.
Going outdoors, Mrs. Burton looked up at the sky. The funnel-shaped,
yellowish white cloud was coming closer, but not so close as the
extraordinary pillar of sand. Then she saw Mr. Simpson and ran forward
to meet him.
“Get the girls out of their tents quickly, or the tents will be down
upon them.”
There was a great bell fastened to a post near one of the tents for use
in emergencies, but Mrs. Burton could not have reached it in time.
However, before she got there it had begun ringing and the girls had run
quickly out in response.
Some instinct must have taught them the proper thing to do, for, in an
instant, they had dropped flat down on the ground. There was no place
nearby to take refuge—no cavern in the rocks—only the flat surface of
the mesa.
It is extraordinary how few people show nervousness or cowardice in the
face of unexpected danger.
Now, of the little Camp Fire party, none of whom knew anything before of
the perils of an Arizona storm, and entirely unprotected as they were,
only Gerry Williams and Marie were frightened.
When Gerry came out of her tent she was clad only in a thin little
wrapper. As soon as she looked up at the sky and heard the muffled roar
of the oncoming storm, which in a strange way seemed only to increase
the stillness nearer by, quite senselessly she started running—running
alone along the top of the mesa as if she meant to plunge over for
safety.
Sally Ashton, who had followed nearest her, made no effort to stop her.
Indeed, Sally flew straight to her sister Alice’s arms and they quietly
lay down beside each other, covering their faces with their hands. For
it is an odd thing how many differences members of a family may have and
yet, in a moment of peril, they are reunited, deserting many an
affection which had seemed a stronger tie than blood.
But, fortunately for Gerry Williams, Vera had seen her loss of judgment.
Vera it was who had aroused soon after Polly had left her tent and,
guessing at once what was about to take place, had rung the bell. For
Vera had the gift for sudden, quick action without waiting for advice.
That instant she seized Gerry by the shoulders and, as she was much the
stronger, threw her down in the sand, pinioning herself on top of her
and holding her still. She was not a moment too soon, for almost at once
the storm passed over them. And all this, of course, has taken longer in
the telling than in the time of action.
The column of sand drew nearer, like a vast herald of disaster with the
wind roaring behind it.
And in the face of the terrific sound, Marie began screaming.
It was so nonsensical and yet it set on edge the nerves of everybody who
was close enough to hear her.
She was kneeling with her face buried in her hands, crying as loud as a
frightened child, and occasionally murmuring a word or two of a Latin
prayer, when she could gather sufficient self-control.
Mrs. Burton chanced not to be near enough to speak to her, but she did
see Mr. Simpson go to Marie and sit down beside her. What he said must
have had a somewhat soothing effect, for she did not cry quite so
noisily, or it may have been that the storm was at the instant passing
over them.
Any one who has ever experienced a western storm will tell you of having
gone through almost the same physical experience. First, there is a
terrible sense of oppression, then, a sound of a tremendous roaring in
the ears and of heavy pressure, followed by a queer tingling and burning
of the skin.
However, as a matter-of-fact, the Sunrise Camp Fire party did not meet
the real force of the storm. In the eccentric fashion that a hurricane
often shows, it turned as it neared their mesa and swerved toward the
south. But they had at least a portion of it and were bathed in fine
sand like a down-pouring of rain.
Yet the whole incident was over in such a little while! And the entire
party got up almost simultaneously, as if they had been Mohammedans
praying in the desert—the early morning prayer of every true follower of
the Prophet. For it is the Mohammedan custom at a given moment at
sunrise and at sunset to kneel and, burying the face in the hands, pray
with the face turned toward Mecca. And, also, at a given moment, in
Moslem countries the prayer is over with the ringing of a great muezzin
bell.
Naturally, as Camp Fire guardian, Polly was most anxious to learn the
effects of the past few moments upon the girls, whose welfare she took
almost too seriously perhaps.
But as soon as she staggered up she heard a voice beside her saying
quietly:
“Don’t try to talk for a moment, Mrs. Burton, please. The air is still
bad. It may hurt your throat.”
And Polly saw that Ellen Deal had come directly to her. The next moment
she had brought a camp chair and was gently forcing her into it.
Polly was pleased and touched. She had not devoted as much attention to
Ellen as she had to some of her other guests. For one thing, Ellen was
older and seemed to have one of the slight natures it is hard to be
intimate with at first. However, she believed that Ellen must have fine
qualities, else the severe Dr. Sylvia Wharton would never have been so
anxious for her to be one of the party. And later, perhaps, she would
have her chance.
“You are very good; there is nothing the matter with me,” Mrs. Burton
murmured, and then frowned and smiled apologetically at the same time.
For her voice apparently seemed to have departed and she was absurdly
weak. But, then, she must remember that she had originally come to
Arizona because this very trouble made her acting impossible.
However, the Camp Fire girls really appeared more entertained than
frightened by what they had undergone.
“I feel rather like a kitten that has been left out over night,” Sally
remarked. “My fur is all ruffled.” She sat blinking her big soft brown
eyes and shaking her brown hair, which was in a mass of brown fluff over
her shoulders. If Sally had dreamed how much she did make people think
of a kitten, perhaps she would not have said this. Yet she did know,
since “kitten” had been her father’s name for her ever since she was a
tiny child.
At present Alice was entirely concerned with her younger sister.
“You are sure you are all right, dear? I was so worried about you. As
the storm blew across us I was thankful to remember you had gained five
pounds since we arrived at the Camp Fire,” Alice said, speaking with
such an appearance of solemnity that it was difficult to decide whether
she was joking. But, then, as growing too fat was Sally’s particular
horror in life, she was of course teasing her in the usual elder sister
fashion.
Sally pretended not to hear.
“Where is Gerry? Is she all right?” she demanded. “She was just in front
of me before the storm broke. Here she comes, now.”
In fact, Gerry was at the moment only a few steps away, leaning on
Vera’s arm and looking fragile and shaken.
“I am abominably afraid of storms; have been always,” she exclaimed
petulantly. “So I suppose you were right not to let me run. Perhaps I
might have been knocked down. Still, I think you were frightfully rough,
Vera. Perhaps you can’t help it, having been brought up in the country.”
And Gerry ended her speech with the fine scorn which one remembers the
city mouse felt for the country mouse in the old fable.
“Yes, I am sorry if I hurt you,” Vera returned, quietly disengaging her
arm from the other girl’s, now that she saw there was nothing the matter
and knowing that she preferred being with Sally. She herself wished to
learn how Peggy and Bettina and their Camp Fire guardian had passed
through the storm.
It was now nearly daylight on the top of the mesa. The sun had not
risen, but there was a kind of general grayness that preceded the
approach of dawn. At least, it was possible for the girls to grope their
way about and to recognize each other as they approached close by.
Vera now saw that Bettina had gone over toward Mrs. Burton and that
Peggy, in her usual practical fashion, was wandering about trying to
discover how much damage had been done. The Indian girl was with her.
It was a piece of good fortune, or perhaps what is usually the cause of
good fortune—a piece of good sense—that the camp fire had been put out
before the girls had retired for the night. In these dry months in
Arizona, when there is ordinarily so little rainfall and living so near
the great ranch fields of corn and alfalfa, Mr. Gardener had suggested
that it was wiser to take every precaution. Now the ashes had blown in
every direction and the three sticks, which usually stood like a tripod
above the camp fire, had tumbled abjectly down. More important, the
kitchen tent had collapsed.
When Vera reached Peggy she discovered that she was pulling at the tent
ropes and trying to find out the extent of the damage.
“Do try to dig out a saucepan or a kettle or anything you can find,
please, Vera,” Peggy suggested. “I am going to start a fire and make
some coffee, if one of us can find the stuff. Nothing happened of any
consequence and yet my knees are as shaky as if I had been through the
war. And I’m afraid Tante will be ill. Mother wrote me not to
forget—even if she never spoke of the fact—that she really is out here
for her health. I don’t know whether being a Camp Fire guardian can be
much of a health cure, but at least it is stimulating.” And Peggy
laughed and set to working vigorously with Vera’s aid to search out what
was needed. In the meantime, Dawapa kept fairly close beside her. For,
apparently, she was less shy with her and liked her best.
Bettina had knelt down beside Polly.
“I hope you are all right,” she began, wishing that she did not always
appear so cold and reserved before her mother’s best beloved friend, and
that she could show the extent of the admiration and affection she felt
for her.
“You are very good, ‘Little Princess,’ to think of me,” Polly said more
lovingly than she usually spoke to any of the girls except Peggy and
Gerry. “But I seem to be hoarse as a crow from the sand in my throat.
Sit here beside me for a moment, won’t you? After a little we must all
go back to bed. Ellen has gone to hunt up a blanket or something for me.
Are you cold?”
Bettina shook her head “No,” but she sat down close to Polly, wishing
that she could take her hand, or do one of the pretty things with her
that came so easily to Gerry Williams or any of the girls even without
the claim that she had upon her mother’s old friend.
A moment later she and Mrs. Burton were both laughing, in spite of the
strangeness and discomfort of their situation.
Marie had found her mistress.
“We will go back to ceevelization today, nes pas. The West it is too
terreeble. It will be ze death of madame.”
Marie was shaking her hands and rolling her eyes. Even in the
semi-darkness one could guess her expression from the tones of her
voice. “But for Meester Simpson, I should have been killed.”
“Oh, not so bad as that, Mam’selle,” Mr. Simpson added, for he had
followed to see that all was well. “I’ll go now, Mrs. Burton, and see
that the sleeping tents are steady, so that you may have a little rest
tonight.”
“And you’ll find some wraps for the girls, please, Marie?” Polly added,
knowing that the wisest way to quiet Marie’s excited nerves was to give
her an occupation.
She then closed her eyes, it seemed to be for only two or three moments,
but opened them in time to see the Indian, who had warned them earlier
in the evening of the approach of the storm, coming toward her for the
second time as she supposed. She had been foolish, perhaps, not to have
heeded his information, but they could have done nothing, except perhaps
to start out for the Gardener ranch. And more than possibly they would
not have arrived in time. Then, as nothing had really happened of
consequence, they must have had the long ride in vain. However, Mrs.
Burton felt that she owed the Indian youth an apology for her careless
disregard of his good intention.
She was opening her mouth to speak to him when she found that Tewa had
apparently not even seen her.
He had dropped down on his knees before Bettina, and yet far enough away
to be entirely respectful.
“You are not hurt; all is well with you, Anacoana? I have been waiting
in a cave not far away, where I wished that all of you might take
refuge,” he explained.
Bettina felt her cheeks crimson and a sensation more of surprise than
anything else for the instant kept her silent.
She had told Tewa her Camp Fire name and he had used it several times.
But that had not seemed remarkable. They were friends and she had found
him unusually interesting. He had told her of the work he hoped to do
for his people as a lawyer representing their claims before the great
Government of the United States which so often had misunderstood the
Indian. And Bettina, whose life had largely been spent in Washington
among the lawmakers of the country, had found nothing ridiculous in this
idea.
Tewa had even confessed the struggle he had always to make, not to
return to the life and customs of his own people at each homecoming. And
Bettina had urged him to follow his larger ideal.
Now, however, his use of her Camp Fire title—even his interest in her
welfare—struck her as almost impertinent. Yet she did the Indian the
justice to realize he had not meant this.
“We are all perfectly safe; the storm was not in the least serious,”
Bettina replied coldly, although she could feel her voice suddenly
shaking.
Although Mrs. Burton had not yet spoken, Bettina was aware that she had
become deeply annoyed; that in some fashion she was entirely
misunderstanding the situation. But how could she explain; what was
there to say at the moment?
“Go to your tent, please, Bettina; I will speak to Tewa,” Polly said
with a coldness of which she was always capable. The whole atmosphere
had changed. Bettina felt humiliated and angry, but obedience was the
only possible thing. Yet she had the sensation of not having been
altogether fairly treated. Why was there no real sympathy and
understanding between Mrs. Burton and her? She ought not to be made
responsible for a situation she could not have avoided.
But Bettina did not see their Camp Fire guardian alone until late that
coming afternoon.
On her dismissal she had found Peggy and Vera, and assisted them with
the making and serving of the coffee. She had also scorched her cheeks,
which were burning hot in any case, making a plate of toast. Then, after
a frugal breakfast and just as the sun was rising over the new Sunrise
Hill camp, the campers went back to bed.
And no one got up until about lunch time.
Polly did not come out of her tent all day.
However, just before dusk she sent for Bettina.
Sitting up in bed, Mrs. Richard Burton was looking rather more frail
than the people who loved her would like to have seen. And Bettina was
also worried by her appearance, although she did not know just what to
say.
Of course, the fact of the matter was that Polly had been uncomfortable
all day over what she thought was Bettina’s too intimate friendship with
the young Indian, in whom she herself was interested. She knew that she
did not understand Bettina’s disposition, and that she did not have her
confidence. She was also afraid of her own ability as a satisfactory
Camp Fire guardian. All this, beside the experience of the night, had
made her ill and undeniably cross.
“In future, as a favor, Bettina, I must ask you to have nothing more to
do with Tewa. The young man comes here to camp as a teacher—not to be a
cavalier to any one of you girls. You are to have nothing more to do
with him.”
Polly Burton spoke in the domineering tone which she often used when she
was cross. She had been doing this ever since her girlhood and always in
the old days it had offended Betty Aston, who was now Betty Graham and
Bettina’s mother. It offended Bettina at the moment. No one had ever
really ordered her to do this or that in her life—this was neither her
mother nor her father’s method.
Besides, it struck Bettina as unfair to her and to the young man who had
befriended her.
Tewa had been invited to camp by their guardian and had been treated as
a friend. He was educated and courteous, and Bettina did not wish to
appear unkind or ungrateful. Besides, by this time it struck her as
absurd to have paid any attention to the young Indian’s use of her Camp
Fire name.
But Tante was looking at her and waiting for an answer. And evidently
she had no idea that the answer could be of but one kind.
“Very well; I shall do what you wish, of course,” Bettina replied, but
speaking with a dignity and a hauteur which had partly helped to earn
for her the once childish title of “Little Princess.” “But really,
Tante, I do not see why you are suddenly taking this attitude; nor what
Tewa has done that we should not be friendly with him. I do not see why,
because he is an Indian, we should be less courteous to him than he has
been to us. I am sorry that he called me by my Camp Fire title tonight,
but I can’t see that it makes a great difference.”
“I prefer not to discuss the subject, Bettina,” Polly answered
decisively. Nor did she show the least sign of relenting at Bettina’s
acquiescence.